“That doll-baby, she not walk away by herself, that certain!” said Maman, at the supper table.
Marteel sat silent and ate nothing.
“W’y you not eat, Marteel?” asked Maman.
Everybody looked at Marteel. Then Grandmère remembered the day that Marteel had come to the graveyard with the other children. Grandmère stared at Marteel as if she were seeing her for the first time. Grandmère thought clearly now. Why had she not remembered before?
“Marteel!” she cried, sharply. “W’at you know ’bout this? W’at you know ’bout Tit-tit’s doll-baby?”
Marteel shook her head. “Not’ing,” she said.
“You sure ’bout that?” questioned Grandmère. “You remember how Suzette, she show you Tit-tit’s grave? You remember the grave-box with flowers in it and a doll-baby behind the glass?”
“Yes,” said Marteel.
“You en’t steal it, Marteel?”
Marteel shook her head.
“She’s lyin’,” whispered Grandmère to Maman. “I can tell. She took it, I’m sure, me.”
“Oh, oh, oh, oh!” cried Maman. “W’at you mean, Suzette, takin’ that savage into the graveyard? Don’t you know Injuns can’t never be trusted? Don’t you know they take everyt’ing they see? ’Cause they all the time t’ink it belong to them? Don’t you know not’ing en’t safe with an Injun around?”
“But Marteel, she en’t never touch’ not’ing! She en’t never took not’ing. W’at you scoldin’ her for? She en’t steal the doll-baby,” wailed Suzette.
“We soon see about that,” said Grandmère, with determination.
Grandmère walked straight out to the shed, to Marteel’s beautiful bed. Marteel and the family followed. The moss mattress lay on the floor, the coverings were mussed and tumbled, the mosquito bar had fallen and was tangled up with the bed-clothes.
“Marteel, w’y en’t you make your bed up neat, like I learn you?” scolded Maman.
Suzette held her breath.
Grandmère pulled the mosquito bar and covers off to one side. She lifted the moss mattress—and there, on the floor beneath, lay Tit-tit’s lost doll. It lay neatly arranged in a little curled-up nest of Spanish moss.
Marteel said nothing. She did not speak when she saw Grandmère’s accusing eyes on her. She did not speak when she saw Grandmère pick up the doll and when she heard Maman’s loud lamentations. She looked from one to the other, confused.
Suzette took Marteel by the hand. Her heart began to pound in her breast, but somehow, she knew Marteel was innocent. She would trust her first, until everything was explained.
“W’at you mean, stealin’ Tit-tit’s doll-baby?” Grandmère turned angrily on Marteel, took her by the arm and shook her. “You wicked thief!”
“Me not thief!” said Marteel, stubbornly. “White girl, me. Suzette’s sister, me.”
“See w’at happen for lettin’ her stay?” cried Maman. “She t’ink she one of us, and w’at we have is hers. Injuns en’t got no moral sense. They take w’at they lay their hands on.”
“Suzette’s sister, me,” repeated Marteel. She pointed to the doll in Grandmère’s hand. “Suzette’s sister’s doll-baby … Marteel’s doll-baby now.”
“See! Hear w’at she say!” shrieked Maman. “She say the doll-baby hers, yes! She call it hers, yes!”
“She t’ink … she t’ink …” said Suzette, trying to explain, “she taken Tit-tit’s place … she really my sister and so …”
“Nonsense! Injun blood is Injun blood!” cried Maman. “She en’t no more your sister than a rabbit. Me, I put up with enough from her and it the last straw, this.”
Papa Jules turned to Maman. “I hear you say she got herself wrap round your heart? W’at kinda mother is that, to turn her loose?”
“She en’t not’ing to me,” protested Maman, frowning. “Just an orphan savage Suzette picked up. I en’t her mother.”
“Your heart, it en’t big enough to take in an orphan child, I reckon,” said Papa Jules, in a low voice.
“She en’t not’ing to me, I tell you,” repeated Maman. “She gotta go.”
“You right, Clothilde,” said Grandmère, sternly. “We not keep her round here after this, no. Nobody know w’at she do next. Nobody know w’at goin’ on inside that head of hers.”
“She gotta go,” cried Maman, “and this time never come back.”
Papa Jules said no more.
Grandmère set her lips in a firm line. “Marteel,” she said, “we tried to make you welcome here, yes. But it a dreadful t’ing, this—takin’ the doll-baby. It so dreadful, we can’t have you round here no more. Go back to the woods to your own people and stay there.”
“Oh, Papa Jules!” cried Suzette. “Don’t let her go! Don’t! Don’t!”
“Go on, you! Git outa here!” ordered Maman, pushing Marteel along.
The Indian girl raised her arms once as if to put them round Maman’s neck. Then she dropped them limply at her side, seeing it was no use.
Suzette knew that Maman meant it this time. Suzette saw the sadness in Marteel’s eyes. She saw her walk slowly toward the gate, her shoulders hunched. There was no use appealing to Papa Jules. Like Maman and Grandmère, he wanted Marteel to go, too. Suzette threw herself down on the moss mattress and sobbed bitterly.
“W’y you all hate her so?” she wailed. “W’y you make her go ’way again? She en’t done not’ing. Marteel, my sister, my sister!”
Grandmère carried the doll carefully back into the house. With loud exclamations and noisy talk, Maman and the boys followed.
It was quiet in the yard after they left. Papa Jules came to the shed and touched Suzette on the shoulder. She went with him to the front gate. Marteel was not yet out of sight. Together they watched her leave the bayou path and turn into the woods, without looking back.
Papa Jules took Suzette by the hand and her tears stopped coming.
“The Injuns really believe that,” he said. “They believe that when one person dies, another can come and take his place. Marteel was only carrying out an old tribal custom. She thought she was taking Tit-tit’s place and so Tit-tit’s doll rightfully belonged to her. Taking it was not stealing. Taking it was not doing wrong. Poor Marteel, she’ll find it hard to be a white girl, yes. Mebbe she better off with her own people.”
“That w’y you let her go, Papa?” asked Suzette.
“Yes, that w’y I let her go.”
CHAPTER NINE
A Christmas Guest
All saints’ Day, November first, came and went. The china-headed doll was replaced in Tit-tit’s grave-box and the glass was carefully sealed. The usual candle-blessing ceremony was held, when the people of the bayou went to the graveyard and prayed for the dead.
It made Suzette very sad. It made her remember how she had forbidden Marteel to come because she had no ancestors there. Marteel had not come, for she was gone, gone, perhaps for good. Suzette held her candle and made her prayers by Grandpère’s grave and by Tit-tit’s grave. Then she made another prayer. She prayed that Marteel might come back.
Soon the winter trapping season opened and most of the neighbors left for a three months’ stay in the prairies. They packed bedding, provisions, furniture and trapping supplies, and removed, with their families, to the marshy trapping grounds, to spend the winter trapping muskrats. It was the only way to make money in the winter time, and one by one, they went sailing off in their luggers down the bayou.
Two of Nonc Lodod’s finest luggers went past the house, sailing abreast, towing his fine new house-boat behind. The phonograph was playing a merry tune and Tante Thérèse waved her arm from the lace-curtained window.
“If only we had a house-boat!” cried Maman. “If only Jules had any kinda boat of his own!” The tears rolled down her cheeks. “Jules, he never make no money, him,” she said, sadly. “He too lazy to go trappin’! He want to loaf round all the time and do not’ing. Each time he went trappin’ before he got shot, he come ba
ck with not enough money to pay for w’at we eat while we gone. He never have none left over. We never get no silk dresses, no nice shiny shoes, no phony graph to make music.”
Suzette put her arms round Maman’s waist. “W’at matter dat?” she said, bravely. “Me, I don’t want no silk dress, no shiny shoes, no phonygraph.”
“Better times, they come,” said Grandmère, “if only you hold up your chin. Jules, he get stronger and next year he go trappin’ and get rich, mebbe.”
“Mebbe,” repeated Maman, bitterly.
“W’y you not go trappin’ muskrat in the prairie?” she demanded, when Papa Jules came in. “Your brothers they go, the neighbors they go, ev’body go but you.”
“Can’t swim to the trappin’ grounds,” said Papa Jules. “Can’t go trappin’ without boat and supplies. And my back, where the bullet is, it get stiff and sore, when I go in damp, wet place like the prairie.”
“Plenty excuse!” sniffed Maman. “That bullet in your back, it not’ing but rheumatiz.”
Papa Jules shrugged his shoulders, picked up his gun and whistled for his dogs. “Me, I fish crab, I fish fish—when they bite—and when they don’t, I go huntin’. Make two-three cent today, we eat tomorrow.”
“For months now, you en’t make half a dollar,” said Maman.
But all the scolding did no good. Papa Jules continued in his lazy ways, absent more and more often from home, hunting, thus, however, keeping the family well supplied with game.
Days passed. One morning the faucet on the rain-water cistern was frozen and had to be thawed out.
“Cold weather it bring le jour de Noël!” cried Maman, smiling.
“Our Maman, she won’t let us forget Christmas, no?” said Papa Jules, with a laugh. “It good, that. La Christine, our Santa Claus, must git a hearty welcome. All we need is plenty money to spend!”
“Plenty money!” sniffed Maman. “W’at you t’ink? You so lazy, mebbe we git two-three cent to spend for Christmas.”
Papa Jules said nothing. He only smiled.
“Nonc Lodod and Nonc Moumout and ev’body come home from the trappin’ grounds,” cried Suzette, happily. It would be wonderful to have Beulah and Doreen and all their neighbors back, though only for a few days. Suzette’s eyes brightened as she thought of le jour de Noël and counted the days. Then her face fell. If only Marteel would come! She wanted no presents for herself. She wanted only Marteel.
The day before Christmas, Papa Jules came into the kitchen laden down with mysterious packages and on top of them, two fat ducks. Maman eyed him suspiciously, so he explained.
“Me, I killed a big buck and Eugène, he shipped it to market and give me a good price for it.”
“How much?” demanded Maman.
“Oh, two-three cent!” laughed Papa. Everybody else laughed too. “Now, en’t you glad I go huntin’ every day? En’t you glad that big buck make Christmas for us? Oh yes, here two fat ducks I brought down—cook ’em for dinner tomorrow.”
The mysterious packages disappeared from sight. Maman forgot all her worries and set to work. She loved to cook and Christmas dinner was worthy of her best efforts. There was chicken and oyster gumbo, fluffy white rice, roast duck, white cream tarts and a layer cake. Tante Toinette and Nonc Moumout came to help eat it, drink wine and enjoy the fun.
The meal had hardly begun when little Noonoo came running in. “A big new lugger with a red sail!” he shouted, pointing out the front door.
“Now who comin’,” cried Maman, “just when we ready to sit down!”
Papa Jules hurried out to find the lugger already moored to the end of his wharf. The children followed at his heels.
“Good day, sir!” said an immaculate gentleman, stepping ashore. He stretched out his hand.
“Monsieur Johnson!” cried Papa Jules, delighted, taking the hand in both his own. “From Minnesota! My good frien’, how fine to see you again. And just in time for Christmas dinner. Where you been so long?”
“Lost!” replied Mr. Johnson. “I expected to be back in Minnesota in time for Christmas, but I got lost in those confounded marshes. My maps are no good. They show only about one-quarter of the waterways. I never knew what a labyrinth Louisiana is! You go down one stream or bayou or coulée, only to find yourself in another. I’ve been going round in circles for days!”
“How you find yourself again?” asked Papa Jules.
“One day, in a deserted spot, I ran across an Indian girl who spoke good English and she directed me to Bayou Barataria. Then I knew where I was.”
An Indian girl! Suzette’s heart missed a beat. But the men went on talking and she had no chance to ask questions.
“Come in! Come in, take Christmas dinner with us!” cried Papa Jules, bubbling over with hospitality.
“But it will be troublesome for your wife …”
“Not at all! Not at all!” cried Papa Jules. “She t’ink it an honor to serve you her roast duck.”
Mr. Johnson could not refuse the cordial invitation, after his dreary days on the bayous. The visit was a gay and happy one. After dinner, Mr. Johnson told of his gold-digging adventures. He told of visiting all the places where Jean Lafitte was said to have buried his treasure. He told of exploring Barataria Bay, Grand Isle, Grand Terre and many adjacent islands and shores.
“And w’at you find, my frien’?” asked Papa Jules, with a sparkle in his eye.
“Nothing! Not a single gold-piece for all my pains!” answered Mr. Johnson, laughing.
“Then you not rich, M’sieu’?” asked Maman, wide-eyed.
“Poorer than when I started,” replied Mr. Johnson, “for I’ve spent all my money.”
“It good, that!” murmured Maman.
“You mean, good that I am poor again?” exclaimed Mr. Johnson.
“Oh no, M’sieu’,” cried Maman, in great confusion. “I only mean, it good … that Jules, my husban’ … he not go with you!”
“So it goes! So it all the time goes, yes!” cried Papa Jules. “Many men, they been fools before. They have risked much and lost everyt’ing. But w’at a fine fable, is it not? And w’at a great man—Jean Lafitte! Always the French fishermen of Barataria, they will do him great honor.”
“And digging for gold,” added Mr. Johnson, “is the greatest sport of all.”
Suddenly a loud knock came at the door. Suzette opened it, giggling, and a strange, half-grown figure stepped in, dressed in a long, loose, woman’s wrapper. His cheeks were bright red, smeared over with elderberry juice, and he wore a crown of Spanish moss wrapped round his head. He carried a long switch in his hand and a loaded burlap sack over his shoulder.
“Here comes La Christine!” he announced. “Any good children here? Any bad children?”
Joseph and Jacques stepped boldly forward. “We good! We good!” they cried, eagerly.
“No, you bad, and I switch you!” La Christine chased them round the room.
Noonoo, frightened, ran and hid behind Maman’s chair. La Christine approached quietly, looking in all directions. “Any good leetle boy here, name’ Noonoo?”
“Here! I … me good!” cried Noonoo, peeping out.
“I got somet’ing for you,” said La Christine, “’count of you been such a good boy.”
He opened his big sack and took out a little red wagon for Noonoo. Then he gave a monkey-on-a-stick to Joseph, a tea-set to Suzette, a baseball bat to Jacques and a bottle of perfume to Eulalie. Last of all he brought out firecrackers, which all the boys pounced upon and which were soon set off to a noisy popping.
Papa Jules turned to Mr. Johnson. “It not Christmas in Louisiana without firecrackers.”
“It sounds more like Fourth of July to me,” said Mr. Johnson, laughing.
During the excitement, La Christine’s wreath and wrapper fell off, and there was Ambrose, red-faced and merry, in the midst of the fun.
There were no gifts for the elders—no phonograph, no silk dresses, no shiny new shoes—but no one mentioned the fact.
r /> At last it was time for Mr. Johnson to go. The family all went out to the wharf to watch his departure. Mr. Johnson thanked his friends for the happy Christmas, shook hands all round and stepped aboard the lugger. He put his head inside the cabin and spoke to a passenger there: “I thought you were going ashore here. Isn’t this where you wanted me to bring you?”
A small dark-skinned figure, with tangled hair and ragged clothes, came out of the cabin and stepped from the lugger to the wharf. She moved forward confidently, never once doubting her welcome.
“That’s the girl who guided me back to civilization,” said Mr. Johnson, as the boat shoved off.
“Marteel!” cried Suzette. She ran to her side and took her hand. “You come back for Christmas?” she whispered.
Marteel nodded, smiling. “Christmas—w’at dat?”
No one else spoke. Mr. Johnson’s lugger moved slowly out into the bayou, while the family watched. When it had passed round the bend, Marteel ran to Maman and reached up her arms. But the look on Maman’s face made her drop them again.
“W’at you come back for?” inquired Maman, coldly. “En’t I tole you to go back to the woods and stay there?”
“White girl, me,” said Marteel. “Suzette’s sister, me.”
“There she goes again …” began Maman.
“It Christmas, Clothilde!” said Papa Jules, gently. “En’t your heart big enough?”
“Have you forgot w’y we shoo her off?” demanded Maman.
Grandmère had been watching the look on Suzette’s face. “We can’t shoo her off on Christmas, Clothilde,” she said, softly. “And look how dirty she is …”
“W’at she needs is a kind Maman to give her a bath,” added Papa Jules. “A kind Maman …”
Suddenly a loud squawking was heard coming from back of the house.
“Run, Suzette, see w’at that is,” cried Maman. “Somet’ing been killin’ my hens. Bring in the eggs while you there. I make omelette for supper.”